A better place
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: Doyle is recovering more slowly than CI5 would like after the assassination attempt


It seemed to take forever for Doyle to get back on his feet this time. Shot in the chest, not once but twice. You don't get up easily from that. Or at all. But by some miracle Doyle is still here. I can't count the hours – nor do I want to – of the time I spent by his bed as a machine breathed for him; lived for him. He took a wrong turn, he took a dip and a dive, but somehow he's still here. He's back with us. He's still very weak and he needs to take his medications regularly. But he's out of hospital now and he has to go back on an almost daily basis for various physiotherapy things. I'd love to go with him to those sessions; dammit, I just don't want him out of my sight again. But we've both got to be brave soldiers and carry on. He's kicking against the traces, as all of us knew he would. He's on his feet and that means in his book that he's Ops ready and gagging to be on the front line again. Our job – my job – is to hold him back until he really is Ops ready mentally and physically. First, doctors orders, he has to reduce his medication until, eventually, he doesn't need to take it at all. All under doctors' supervision of course. That's part of the physiotherapy stuff. But the less tablets he takes the more crappy he feels. He's taking a duck and dive again – but in his head this time. It's my job – Cowley's orders – to get him on an even keel. Since when did I become CI5's quack doctor of choice? I can't even look after myself sometimes! Pride gets in the way.

I go round to his house tonight for a meal and a chat. Things have not been going well. I have very little left to give him. We watch the football on the telly then I watch him making dinner – his mind only half on what he's doing – and we talk about anything and everything, although I'm running out of topics; running out of steam just as he is. We had a bit of a kickabout in the back garden yesterday. The yard is only the size of a double bed, but it had to do - he wouldn't go a public place like a local park. After about half an hour I could tell that he was knackered. Not that he would ever tell me. Panting and sweating and gasping for breath. It breaks my heart in two to see it. But of course I had to put on the cheery face, the slap on the back and the "you're doing well" as sincerely as I could muster. He didn't look convinced and I didn't blame him. It will be good to take him away for a bit; take him away from all of this – the hospital appointments, the drugs, the pitying looks (as he sees it). He hasn't been in touch with any of his colleagues and tries to avoid any approaches to him as he feels too ashamed. He hasn't put that into words, of course, but I feel I know him well enough to understand what's going on in that mind of his; why he's blocking us all out. Unfortunately, we can't go too far from the hospital because of all of his blasted appointments.

Two weeks on and Doyle has taken his final tablet and his final appointment. It's up to Cowley's weird and wonderful training crew now and, of course, Dr Ross to ensure that he continues apace. Doyle, to my surprise, has invited me out for a meal. Yes, a public place! He must be feeling better in his head if he feels he can go public and celebrate like this. I do, though, wonder if there is something behind this. It's my old nemesis – mistrust. I wonder if Doyle is going to chuck it all in as he's been threatening to do over the last few months. We meet at a nice Indian restaurant on the High Street.

Doyle looks me up and down and grins. A lovely sight that I haven't seen very often over these last several months. "You're looking ravishing, Bodie. This isn't a date you know!"

I'd been wondering all afternoon what to wear. How to play this. Not knowing Doyle's agenda – but suspecting it – I go for the formal approach. It's a kind of uniform I suppose; a kind of carapace; a protection. Doyle looks quite smart – for him that is! He even has a tie on – well, it is that kind of place. He even tells me that he's paying for the meal. This kind of confirms what I'm fearing that he's going to tell me. But, as usual, he can read me. He's the only person – perhaps except Cowley – who is close enough to my core to see a little of what is in my heart and my head.

"Don't look so scared, buddy," he says as we sit down. He has seen past my mask. "I'll tell you straight off." I hold my breath and try to keep my face in neutral. "I'm still going to stay in CI5 you know." I'm still holding my breath. I'm convinced that there is an axe about fall. The silence lengthens. I think he's wanting me to say something or ask something, but I don't know what it is.

Eventually I say, "And that's it. You're going to do all the retraining and stuff and come back on the front line?" I want to add more, but my throat starts to contract and my belly is in knots. I'm trying to keep it together.

He seems to sense this and smiles again. That wonderful smile that I never thought I would see again. I'm close to tears and it's ridiculous. A man of my age and experience. Come on, Bodie, keep it together. "God knows why," he continues. "I'll probably get shot at the next outing."

I can't bear it. "Don't you dare say that!" I shouted louder than I thought. My emotions getting the better of me. Damn the man. Keep it in, Bodie, keep it in.

Doyle senses my emotions. When heads have finished turning and diners have gone back to their meals, he looks around, satisfied that no-one is looking. He puts a hand over mine and squeezes. I wonder what's coming. "It's alright Bodie. You've been bloody wonderful to me. So patient. More patient than I would've been. You had to put up with my black moods and grumbles. So I guess we're stuck together. You and me against the world, eh?"

I slide my hand away from his in case anyone is looking. It takes me awhile to get my voice under control. "Yeah well. In a few weeks, after Towser has taken you apart and the Queen of Cybernetics has scrambled round your head, Cowley's got work for you to do. He's been moaning at me forever about being shorthanded. So you better not get yourself injured again Doyle. The Old Man will never forgive you." I would never forgive you – but I can't say that.


End file.
